


You'd Be So Easy To Love

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Frosting, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Pining, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Reichenbach, Sugar-coated mutual wanks, Valentine - Freeform, eating cake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 18:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Diverges after The Reichenbach Fall with heavy changes to The Empty Hearse, where John never gives the ring to Mary, Sherlock never interrupts the proposal in the restaurant.A belated Christmas gift and Valentine for my humble beta, MrBotanyB, who gave me the prompt idea of the song, "You'd be so easy to love" wanted a bit of John angst. Here’s something sentimental for you, and for all the sentimental fools.Also applies toH.I.A.T.U.S.Valentine challenge for February 2018.





	You'd Be So Easy To Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrBotanyB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBotanyB/gifts).



> [You'd be so easy to love,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ial1r7H4bng)  
> So easy to idolize all others above.  
> So worth the yearning for,  
> So swell to keep every home fire burning for.
> 
> And we would be so grand at the game.  
> Carefree together that it does seem a shame.  
> That you can't see your future with me.  
> 'Cause you'd be, oh, so easy to love.
> 
> You'd be so easy to love.  
> Easy to idolize all others above.  
> So worth the yearning for,  
> So swell to keep all the home fires burning for.
> 
> We'd be so grand at the game.  
> So carefree together that it does seem a shame,  
> That you can't see your future with me,  
> 'Cause you'd be, oh, so easy to love.
> 
> Easy to love.  
> Easy to love.  
> ~by Cole Porter

His life in cardboard boxes. It felt like a second death, moving out of 221b. He thought the pain would leave him with the move. It didn’t.

The place he moved into was better than the bedsit he’d had before 221b. Larger, brighter. No lumps in the mattress. Mycroft had seen to that. Mary convinced John that it was for the best. He missed Mrs. Hudson, but the pain wouldn’t let him live there anymore. He left almost everything behind. The rest he took with him, packed inside the boxes.

Almost two years and he still choked up when he spoke Sherlock’s name. A day came when the blogger in him unpacked his friend word by word, and with every word, he cried all the tears he’d held inside. Although he felt a sense of finality with each blog post, Sherlock deserved to be remembered as a great man. A good man.

He not only left words, but flowers. Roses, daisies, lilies each week on his grave. He noticed that he wasn’t only person who remembered Sherlock, the blog held comments and the headstone, chrysanthemums. At times with eyes fixed on the cold marble, he’d ask Sherlock not to be dead and a sliver of hope would pass overhead, but he’d look up to see it was only clouds parting. Those were the moments when he wondered if only he’d said those unspoken words, maybe Sherlock would be beside him instead of underneath his feet.

He got the note in the post the Tuesday after his second blog post. He’d just returned home from the cemetery to find it. Penned in Sherlock’s disjointed cursive on blue stationary, John’s heart pounded as he read it. Postmarked that very week, it contained three words only: _Please forgive me_. John’s hands shook so violently he nearly dropped the cryptic message trying to slip it back inside the envelope. He shared it with Mycroft, who explained that despite the post date, Sherlock must have penned it before he died. A doubt crept into the back of John’s mind. A bit of hope too, like the clouds parting overhead.

Through it all, Mary made life tolerable. He no longer woke up in the middle of the night or longed to stick his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. She loved him. He knew she loved him. He loved her or the idea of her. He hadn’t decided which, and really, did it matter? He wasn’t alone anymore. He hated all that empty time to think. She took his life out of the boxes and literally unpacked them for him.

He read somewhere once that people got engaged in the fall, and that October was the most popular month of all. Why people popped the question and got hitched in the fall puzzled John. Shouldn’t it be Valentine’s Day? That would make more sense. He supposed Sherlock would have an answer handy for him. On his own he deduced that what made people decide to take the big step in the autumn was a metaphorical way of saying goodbye to the past. An out with the old, in with the new.

When John was younger, he’d always thought he’d get married. Then he met Sherlock and the idea got pushed aside. Looking back, he knew it was Sherlock doing most of the pushing, but despite his protests, John never really minded. Their fucked up relationship saved him, centered him. A shame he never acknowledged this until Sherlock wasn’t there.

While he wasn’t married to his work like Sherlock, when John was with the detective, the work and the man became married to John. Without the two, John became a widower. He made up his mind— he couldn’t live without a partner. That was why he called Mary and made a date for Saturday night. Dinner at the poshest restaurant he could afford. He planned to shop for a ring the next day. He’d be lonely no more.

In the end, he never bought a ring. He had his great aunt’s. She’d had no sons or daughters, but she’d loved John like a son and gave it to John years ago. He’d almost forgotten it except Mary had found it when she’d unpacked his boxes. An heirloom. Red satin box, matching crushed velvet lining, three stones set in gold. He wondered if she’d thought it was for her when she’d found it.

The afternoon of the proposal, John stopped at 221b to see Mrs. Hudson. She was the closest to a mum he had left, so it was only right that he’d tell her of his plans. He stood in front of the door, head down unable to move his feet or lift his hand. She opened the door for him.

“John, it’s so wonderful to see you!”

Her open smile and laugh lines made Mrs. Hudson seem years younger, lighter, happier than the last time he’d seen her. Although he stopped in after he’d moved out less and less frequently, he’d managed to come by and spend time with her. She’d taken Sherlock’s passing hard. To her, he’d always be her son. John hoped she felt the same about him.

“I’ve some news to share. Good news, I think,” he said.

Her smile turned brighter. “Really. I’d love some good news. I baked a cake! Strawberries with white chocolate and whipped cream. One of Sherlock’s favorites. Sit down and have a slice.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“What’s this news you have?” she asked, getting a plate out of the cupboard.

“I’m getting married.”

The light in her face disappeared. “So soon? after Sherlock? You hadn’t told me you were seeing anyone.”

“Well, yes, it’s been six months,” John said and bit his lip. He’d expected hugs and crying and tea and biscuits from Mrs. Hudson. Not this. At least she had cake.

“Oh, John! Are you sure? This is so sudden. What’s his name?”

“His name? No, I’m marrying a woman. Her name is Mary.”

“Mary? Imagine that. A woman.” She was fidgeting, distracted as she pulled out a knife to cut the cake. “Have you popped the question, dear?”

“No, not yet. I am tonight. At dinner.” John stared at her.

“Oh, dear, so soon? Such bad timing. How big of a slice would you like?”

Why was this ‘bad timing’? She was acting strange, and he’d had an odd feeling all day. He’d dismissed it as pre-proposal jitters, but...

“Just a small piece,” he said, sitting down at her table. “What do you mean? Mrs. Hudson, if you know something...something important, you’d better tell me.” He _was_ going to show her the ring, tell her how happy he was. But she wasn’t happy. Something was off. _That note_. If what he believed was true, if…

“John, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can say…”

He sat up straight and frowned. “Because there’s nothing to tell or because you can’t?”

“ _John_.”

That was the confirmation he needed. He was shaking from anger _and_ excitement. “I guess that’s answer enough. Is he here? Upstairs?”

“You know I’ve always hated getting _between_ you boys,” he heard her voice trail off as he started for the stairs. “Oh, dear, you didn’t even eat your cake!”

He’d kill him first. Then Mycroft.

He took the stairs two at a time, calling his name. Sure enough, like a banquet, a fresh experiment spread out over the kitchen table. He was angry, so angry. But a part of him was so glad he could do cartwheels. He scavenged the apartment for other evidence of Sherlock. Nicotine patches on the coffee table. Laptop open and on, but logged out. Sheets spread akimbo on his bed. His violin out of the case and propped up next to his chair. Sheet music out. He sat and waited, half expecting Sherlock to waltz through the door. He had so many unanswered questions, and Mrs. Hudson didn’t know the answers. After waiting about an hour, he could sit still no longer.

Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but he went upstairs to his old room and got his Sig Sauer out of the gun safe on the top shelf. With Sherlock’s return, trouble would soon follow. Best to be prepared.

And then there’s always shooting the wanker. Well, wound him. A little. Maybe just a flesh wound. He stuffed it in the back of his trousers.

Next stop, answers. Molly, then a certain Lieutenant. If all else failed, Mycroft.

Molly crumbled after fifteen minutes. He kept his gun out of sight. His weapon of choice was guilt. She sobbed giant tears of regret into a cadaver. One cab ride and Lestrade confirmed it. He was nice enough not to arrest John afterward, and John was nice enough not to headbutt him a second time. But when the sleek black car met John outside of the Yard, he lost what little grip he had on his temper. People screamed and ran. All this time he’d thought the sedan’s windows were bulletproof. He was mistaken.

“Get in, John.” Blood trickled onto Mycroft’s serious-grey Prince of Wales suit. He’d grazed Mycroft’s temple, and he wasn’t sorry. Not a bit. A crowd hovered twelve feet back and some officers raced down the steps toward the commotion. John decided it was best to get in, but not before brushing glass off the seat and throwing Mycroft a glare that promised to finish the job if he didn’t get answers.

“That was most unwise,” Mycroft said, dabbing the blood with his embroidered silk handkerchief.

It fucked with John’s head that Mycroft was hardly phased, but he’d be damned if he’d let Mycroft rattle him.

“I must thank you for illustrating what poor quality this bulletproof glass truly is,” Mycroft said with a sniff. “Nothing is completely impenetrable, but we were assured little structural integrity would be lost when allowing for the windows to roll down. These were to be resistant to high powered weapons, not shattered by likes of that gun you carry!” Mycroft shook his head and mumbled a bit about “shoddy standards” and “no quality control.”

“I think I got glass in your chocolate cake,” John observed, looking at the open box in Mycroft’s lap.

“So you did. I really shouldn’t be snacking between meals. Thank you, Doctor Watson, for helping me with that.”

John raised his right eyebrow. “What’s with the _Dr. Watson_ , and why are you being so nice? Wait...My God! Strawberries and white chocolate with whipped cream and _now_ double chocolate cake!”

“Guilty. He cornered me into picking it up for him. I’m afraid you caught me having a taste.”

“I’m going to kill him. And you.”

“Doctor try to control yourself! Mrs. Hudson told me you were agitated. She has such a way of understatement. I fear what I am about to tell you will anger you more; therefore, put away your gun. _Thank you_. First, get it through your thick skull that Sherlock ordered me not to tell you this.”

“So as usual you’re going against his wishes. Too bad you didn’t do it TWO YEARS AGO!”

“No need to raise your voice. Sherlock insisted you’d be delighted by the surprise. I rather thought not. My brother overestimates you at times. My, you do turn a bright red when angry.”

“Don’t make me sorry I put away my gun!” After John cooled down (a fraction), Mycroft told him Sherlock’s reason for faking his death. He didn’t understand why Sherlock couldn’t trust him to keep his ‘suicide’ secret, or better, to help him unravel the network. Mycroft explained that his brother had no choice. Moriarty had snipers trained on the three people he cared for most. He had to jump. Fake his death. Then he went after those that might harm those he cared for.

“The rest is not easy to tell you,” Mycroft said. “For months he was held captive. What they did to my brother was incomprehensible.”

Torture. John put his head between his knees. He resented that Sherlock did it on his own, but John wasn’t surprised. Of course Sherlock would sacrifice himself! He’d done it for him often enough.

“If I’d been with him,” John said, “none of this would have happened.”

“You never would have made it that far. You would have been dead, leaving Sherlock with nothing to live for but revenge. My brother paid tremendous price for your safety. He may never be the same. Better that he return half a man than not at all.”

“Half a man? What do you mean by that?” John’s head swam.

“Thankfully, he will recover physically. We retrieved him before they were finished.”

“ _Finished_? Christ.”

“John. He has healed, but he’s been through hell. Please do not put him through anymore. He is waiting for you at your apartment. I know you have dinner reservations at a cozy little spot tonight with a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion reserved, and I know what you carry in your coat pocket...”

“What are you getting at?”

“Despite my warnings about the disadvantages of caring, he continues to care for you. Deeply. He believed that when he returned, you would be waiting for him , return with him to Baker Street, and all that ‘happily ever after’ rot he used to read about as a child. He thought to resume your lives _together_ . He thought to surprise you tonight. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson called him before he _that_ grave mistake. Thankfully she saw fit to call me.”

“Just what are you getting at here?”

“John, you are a crack shot. How is it that you cannot locate this particular target? You are completely blind when it comes to the workings of your own heart.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who’s blind when it comes to things like feelings.”

“I see far better than you about those ‘things.’ Enough to know who you love and who my brother loves.”

Mycroft’s words cut into him. Words he’d thought of so many times but pushed into the corners of his mind. His pulse raced, and he couldn’t catch his breath. As Mycroft let him out in front of his apartment, his legs barely held him up. John thought having a place on ground level was more convenient, yet the front door stoop seemed insurmountable. He opened the foyer and heard familiar footfalls behind his apartment door. Sherlock’s gate. He was right on the other side of his door. John rested his palm against it as the door swung open.

John never was overly fond of his name, but he supposed he could have been christened worse: Hector or Beauregard or...Mycroft. The name John was common, plain. But when Sherlock spoke it from those lips, even chapped and cracked, his name became treasured, adored. “ _John_.”

John’s own voice fractured into tiny pieces as Sherlock melted in front of him. He held up the man who gave him back his life. Visions of the fall came back to him. Sherlock helpless on the ground. He’d prayed for Sherlock not to be dead.

He also recalled the night after he got the note, not more than three months ago. He let himself imagine Sherlock was still alive, and let himself into 221B. He realized he was being horribly sentimental, but he didn’t care. He kept the skull company and took one of Sherlock’s blue scarves and kept it on his bedpost in his own lonely apartment. He also helped himself to one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns and wore it from time to time. There was always a part of him that held onto the belief that he wasn’t dead.

With Sherlock in his arms wearing that same gown, John clutched him, eyes hot with tears. Sherlock pulled back to look into John’s misty eyes, his weight shifting from one leg to the other. He’d found his scarf on the bedpost and held it tight in his hand. Pale, gaunt, he reminded John of a shadow.

John’s chest ached looking at him.

“You don’t even know who you are marrying.”

John’s mouth opened in shock. “I don’t believe you! That’s the first thing you say to me?!”

“My dressing gown looks better on you?”

“Not funny! And how would you know?” John let go of him. “You...you didn’t hide in here? Tell me you didn’t do that.”

“I didn’t. I watched from across the street. With binoculars. Through your window.”

“So you _spied_ on me?”

“I was observing. I had to know how you were. You should be flattered.”

“In what universe would a person say they should be flattered when they’re being stalked?”

“You looked attractive in this gown. It matches your eyes. See? You took this robe and my scarf, which tells me that you wanted mementos, pieces of me. I am touched, John.”

“Apparently I had no reason to mourn you since YOU WEREN’T DEAD!”

Sherlock flinched as if he’d been struck. John stepped closer, grasping Sherlock’s arms.

“You bloody git,” John said, pulling Sherlock closer and hugging him tight. “I missed you.”

“Someone really is happy to see me,” Sherlock said as his hand found John’s gun. His fingers caressed it, then slipped around the front and John gasped. Was Sherlock finally making a move on him? He was disappointed when Sherlock reached inside John’s coat pocket and pulled out the red silk box.

“Weren’t you supposed to be somewhere?” Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Bloody hell!” John pulled out his cell to check the time. 9:27. _Six missed calls._ He’d turned off his ringer! When had he done that?

They both jumped at the turn of a key. The door creaked. “ _John_ ? _John_? Are you…” Mary. Mouth agape, eyes wide. Sherlock unwrapped his arms from around John and stepped back.

“You must be Mary. I am Sherlock Holmes,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. John’s eyes narrowed. Sherlock wasn’t assessing her. Obvious conclusion: he already had, but when?

“Yes, I know,” she said. No hint of bitterness. All light and without a care. She was too cool. Too calm. Her eyes travelled to the red box before shaking his hand. “So this why you stood me up because Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead? I guess that’s as good excuse as anyone could ever have. I knew something had to be off for John Watson to stand me up.”

John assessed the damage further. Her smile. Her extended arms. He’d learned a few tricks from Sherlock about reading people over the years. But Mary was a mystery. He was never quite sure what she was thinking, which was part of the attraction. He couldn’t tell now. She should be nonplussed and outraged, instead she seemed pleasant and sympathetic. He didn’t trust it.

“I think I’ll say goodnight. You two have a lot to discuss.” Her decision made, she kissed John on the cheek.

John didn’t understand why she was leaving so soon. If the roles were reversed, he would want answers. “Mary, wait.”

“We’ll talk, John. But not tonight.” She kissed him again— this time a quick peck on the lips. She winked at Sherlock. “Don’t stay up too late talking to John. You, mister, have a lot to explain.”

As she turned to leave, Sherlock slipped the box into the pocket of his robe, squinting his eyes as he watched her retreat.

“You can’t marry her,” he said.

“Why? What do you know, Sherlock?” What did he deduce when he looked at Mary? John was afraid to ask. _He can’t marry her_? She was always too good, too right, too convenient. Sherlock’s words rang true: He didn’t know her. His pulse pounded in his temples telling him there was a hidden message in Sherlock’s words. There always was with Sherlock.

He wanted to believe Mycroft, that Sherlock felt more than friendship, could feel more than friendship for John. What if Mycroft was correct? For John, that was reason enough not to marry.

“You love her.” Sherlock’s voice hung in the air. Short, bitter. Jealous.

“That’s not what I asked you. What do you know about her?”

“You _do_ love her. But maybe there is...another. Someone you’ve always loved who you thought untouchable. Someone who left you.” His last words hung between them, and his face flushed as he gulped for air, panicking. “Forget what I said. Delete it.”

For years, John wore his love on his sleeve and brushed it off like so many pieces of lint. He’d denied he was gay. He denied the love he didn’t recognize it. What a fool he’d been. He thought he’d lost his chance. It stood before him, a flicker of hope beneath blue silk gown, all broken and shaken but with a gleam of hope in his eyes. That same hope bubbled up inside John.

“I won’t delete that! Why would I want to? And I won’t let you delete it either. You deserved to be loved!”

“I am not easy to love. I never wanted it. But I could never delete. It tried. It didn’t work.”

“Sherlock, of course you want it. And you do love. You love your friends. Sometimes you’re a stupid fool.” He decided to take a leap. He swore if Sherlock was alive he would. He’d wished for the chance. “You’re saying you don’t want love, but you do. Admit it.”

“John, you are so easy to love. Everyone who meets you, does. You are kind, thoughtful, decent.”

“So, that’s a start.” John stepped forward, resting his hand tentatively on the front of his robe.

Sherlock nodded in return, hesitant, bashful, eyes flickering down, his fingers scratching his thighs. John worried the silky threads against his own thumb. “John. I understand that you cannot return it. You are not gay, but more, I’ve hurt you. I’m impossible to love. That’s why no one does.”

“That’s shite! Of course people love you! They adore you. Gave you flowers! Letters! Have you read my blog?! All those people mourning you, pouring out their hearts. God knows, Molly loves you. Look what she did for you. Who cares what some of those wankers like Anderson at Scotland Yard think? Lestrade loves you. I love you. Even that horse’s arse of a brother loves you.”

“You love me?”

“Yes, you git.” John licked his lips. “You can’t take those words back. I won’t take back what I said either. Not ever.” John held his breath and closed his eyes.

“You love me as a friend,” Sherlock said slowly. “Like the others. That’s how you love me.”

“Yes, I do.” John let his hand drop to his side. He realized his mistake. Why didn’t he say it?

“I do too.”

It was for the best that he didn’t. He was hoping Sherlock meant more, but of course not. They would continue love each other as friends. Mycroft had it wrong. He should have known better. Sherlock wanted the companionship of a best mate, the love of a deep and lasting friendship, not some romantic entanglement.

As he rubbed his neck and chewed his lip, John’s heart sank. He stared at his feet, and with a deep sigh, lifted his eyes to see the distress in Sherlock’s face. Maybe a romantic relationship wasn’t such a pie-in-the-sky fantasy.

“A friend. But more. I want more, John. Much more. I’ve wanted this...since...but we must _be careful_.”

John’s heart blazed. He smiled wide. Mycroft was correct! Sherlock did love him! Him! Suddenly the air crackled. Sherlock’s brow creased. John stared, confused. In Afghanistan before an ambush, he recalled this same feeling: His instinct kicked in and a heightened state of reality allowed him to see the danger. In that moment, John took action. Saved his platoon. As Sherlock stood before him, John felt that same cold chill run through his limbs. Less than a second before the shot blasted through the front window, John grabbed Sherlock and tore him away. In horror he watched as blood blossomed against Sherlock’s blue silk robe. They both fell forward, and John held him. Panic never set in until they were inside the ambulance, and he was holding Sherlock’s hand. John’s whole frame shook despite the warm shock blanket wrapped around him. Blood was on his hands, Sherlock’s blood. Before, he’d called emergency, he’d done his best to stop his bleeding. He’d lost so much. Fear took hold of John: What if he only had Sherlock back to lose him again?

“Don’t die you wanker,” John whispered as he squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“ _John, John, John_ . I said it before...it’s a clean wound through my side. No major organs damaged. I’m not going to _die_.”

John choked back a laugh of relief. At least he was lucid and diagnosing himself, but he was shockingly white and fragile. As they wheeled him into hospital, he refused to go under anesthesia and demanded a local instead. They cleaned the wound, sewed him up, then bandaged him with Sherlock barking instructions and demanding discharge. The doctors refused despite Sherlock’s loud and vapid protests.

In the end, it was a wild way to welcome Sherlock back to the living. The press milled around the nurse’s station asking questions and getting few answers before Mycroft’s men made them leave. Lestrade appeared before John, like Greg was teleported into Bart’s. They both dodged the press by ducking into Sherlock’s room. More frustrating, Sherlock still evaded John’s questions regarding who shot him.

Then there was Mary. He had just stepped outside Sherlock’s room to let Lestrade and Mycroft try to talk some sense into Sherlock, when he saw her walking down the corridor toward him. It seemed like years since he saw her at his flat. He realized he hadn’t called her, told her what happened. _Shouldn’t a person do that?_ He was going to ask her to marry him! That he hadn’t given a thought to any of it spoke volumes. She had on her nurse’s uniform, and a smile formed on her lips as she neared. She explained to John that she’d been called in to cover for a friend, and since she’d had nothing to do, she’d decided might as well pick up a shift. John didn’t understand. She should be angry. If any other woman would have said she had “nothing to do” on the night she was expecting to be proposed to, John would have expected a bit of bite in her voice. Not Mary. She took it all in stride. She said she’d heard the ruckus about Sherlock being shot and came right down. “News travels fast at Bart’s,” she’d said.

“Do you know who shot him?” she asked.

“The stubborn arse says he doesn’t know.”

“But you believe he does?”

“I don’t know. He must not. Who knows? Not me. Why the hell would he tell _me_ anything? He let me believe he was dead for two years!” John scratched the back of his neck. “The doctors plan to keep him overnight, so I’ll probably campout here to make sure he’s okay. I don’t like having him prescribed sedatives, but he needs them, for everyone’s sake and his own.”

“I better get back to rounds, but I’ll come back and check on you later. If you’d like to grab a cuppa or a bite to eat, I can relieve you for a bit.”

“Thanks. That’d be nice.”

“I’ll be back then in a few hours.”

He watched her walk away down the hall, a bit of regret in his heart. She really was lovely and smart and kind. All that any man should ever want, yet there was an itch in the back of his mind as he watched her walk away. She was always too accepting, too helpful. He guessed after his rough home life, then living with Sherlock those years, he expected ulterior motives. He really did love her. Just not as much. He wanted something else, someone else. He guess he always had. He sighed. He’d have to tell her the truth. Soon.

Sherlock’s door opened. “John, a word,” Mycroft said, as Sherlock’s deep baritone spilled into the hallway calling him back.

“Who did this?” John asked. “You know, don’t you?”

“I do,” Mycroft said, shutting the door. “Despite Sherlock’s demands that I not interfere, I plan to do so.”

“No surprise there.” Mycroft was such a tosser, but in the end, he cared about Sherlock, and he was excellent backup.

“If I would have ‘interfered’ earlier, this would not have transpired. Sherlock is fortunate. The one who shot him was a paid assassin with an impeccable kill ratio. That Sherlock is still alive is a testament to you and your quick action. Until recently, this assassin dropped ‘off the map’ as it were. As a freelance for Moriarty, her whereabouts were of keen interest to us. A master of disguise and deception, she disappeared and started a new life with a new name right in plain sight.”

He froze. “She?” His heart chilled over.

“John, there’s something you should know about your...intended.”

John turned stiff and still. He blinked. “No. Just no. It can’t be.”

“Oh, but it is. She does not know we are ‘on to her.’ I am certain she plans to finish the job she started.”

“I don’t believe this. Not Mary. She’s not like that.” Despite his doubts, he never thought this.

“I assure you, she is like that. We have installed cameras. When she comes to relieve you, she will make her move. Maybe it is best that you not face her. In your state, you will give yourself away. I will have Lestrade watch over him and say you had to step out for an emergency with a patient. Sherlock will pretend to be sedated. You may watch the CCTV. Until then, I think it best you not disturb my brother.”

“Not disturb him?! I’m the one disturbed!”

As if on cue, Sherlock’s voice bellowed out, calling John.

“He’s always disturbed! Listen to him! I’m talking to him. Now!” John pushed past Mycroft and stormed into the room.

God, he was all pale and corpse-like, all pathetic and hooked up to IVs. He hated yelling at him, but it seemed he couldn’t help himself. “It’s all true. Mary is a…I can’t even say it.” John sat down heavily in stark vinyl chair next to his bed. “She lied to me. It was all lies. And then she _shot_ you!”

“Don’t be too hard on her. She shot me because she had no choice.”

“What are you talking about she had no choice?! She tried to _kill_ you!” John covered his face with his hands in shame and despair.

“She’s being blackmailed. That was part of it. She must kill me: It’s either me, or you would find out the truth. I understand how losing you could push Mary to take desperate measures. Unfortunately for her, we already knew who she was. Her mistake was that she underestimated what I knew about her. She thought she’d destroyed all evidence of her existence.”

“And the other part?”

“She saw us together. She’s a smart woman.”

He removed his hands from his face as he listened to Sherlock, then let one rest on the bed next to Sherlock. “But _she wasn't supposed_ to be like that. Why is _she_ like that?”

“Because _you_ chose her.”

“I chose her.” John’s breath caught in his throat. “But I chose you too. What does that say about me?”

“It says you love excitement, mystery, danger.”

“I was hoping it meant much more than that.”

“It does, John. To me, it does.” With his shaking hand, Sherlock grasped John’s and enfolded it. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.

“I think you should nap while you can. You’re exhausted and drained.”

“Is that an order from my doctor?” Sherlock’s eyes brightened a bit and his lips gently curled up.

“Yes, that’s an order. At least try and rest those eyes.” He gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze but didn’t let go. He’d never want to let go of him again.

While Sherlock rested, John’s mind tumbled in turmoil. He’d planned to marry her, give her his aunt’s ring, give her the rest of his life! All because he was lonely! He thought back to the beginning when he first met Mary. In so many ways, she was like Sherlock yet so different. She understood his moods, she read his thoughts. She anticipated. Reflecting back, it seemed so calculating, but at the time it was a comfort. She understood his loss. She wasn’t threatened by Sherlock’s memory. He even wondered in the beginning, who was this woman who soothed his anguish yet challenged his essence? She was like a magic pill. He should have known, should have seen. He trusted her like he trusted Sherlock from that first moment they met. But they were nothing alike at all in the end.

He sighed and brushed his thumbs across Sherlock’s knuckles, then the IV in the top of his hand. Sherlock’s hands spoke to him. Scars, calluses. God, his beautiful fingers had been broken and reset poorly. They’d need to be done again proper. Looking at him in the bed, John saw some of the punishment Sherlock’s body had taken over the last two years. _For John_. His love. His life on a bed because John hadn’t seen the truth. He should have seen Sherlock’s distress before he faked his death. He should have known he was out there suffering. He should have admitted to himself long ago how much he loved this man and been brave enough to tell him. If he had done any of this, Sherlock would not be before him on this cold bed. And what had Mycroft meant when he’d said Sherlock had returned as “half a man”? He was terrified to ask. What other horrors had Sherlock endured?

His mind wrestled with all the possibilities until Lestrade came in with Mycroft.

“She’s on her way, John,” Lestrade said, looking down at their clasped hands. “I’ll take it from here. Follow Mycroft. I’ll wake up Sherlock.”

“No need,” Sherlock said. “I’m quite awake.”

John gave Sherlock’s hand one last reluctant squeeze before standing. He closed his eyes, then walked out with Mycroft as he lead him to a room down the hall. Who was the real sociopath? Sherlock had claimed that he was one once. John knew differently. He surprised himself to think that he spent so many hours with a woman who most likely was one and never recognized it. He should have known in the blank stare she gave him or in the smile that never quite reached her eyes. Sherlock’s face was like an expressionistic painting: exaggerated, vivid and brilliant. No, Sherlock was no sociopath.

“Are you sure he’s going to be safe?” he asked Mycroft.

“There’s always risk when dealing with professionals, but we are not far.”

Professionals. The unsaid “assassin” left John cold.

As they slipped into the room and closed the door behind them, the CCTV monitors had already come to life: Three other of Mycroft’s men watched on as Lestrade talked briefly to Sherlock before he let his eyes close. They all left except Lestrade. Moments later, Mary walked in. John took a seat to watch as she spoke to Greg, and he nodded and left her alone with Sherlock.

Moments later, she slipped a syringe from her pocket.

“We need to stop her!” John said, standing up

“No, need,” Mycroft said, grabbing his arm. John watched and jerked free. Dumbfounded, he turned to the see Mary inject the medication into his IV, then slip it quietly back into her pocket.

“The IV is not in a vein,” Mycroft explained. “We have rigged it so that it appears to be working to even the most trained eye as yours. She would not know unless she removed the IV.”

“Let me go. I want to confront her. I need to.”

“I thought as much. Very well, John, but you might want to watch and listen a bit longer,” Mycroft said, nodding at the screen. Sherlock’s eyes opened.

“Mary, what are you doing?” Sherlock asked. “I feel odd.”

She took the call button from his reach. “I’m sorry. I did what needed to be done.”

“Why?” His eyes fluttered closed.

“I would do anything to keep John. I think we are in agreement on that. Then there was that moment you had at the apartment. Too cozy. I’m sorry that you ended up as collateral damage.”

“You shot me,” he whispered.

Mary’s answer was a nod with smile that never reached her eyes.

With those last words, John couldn’t keep himself from bursting into Sherlock’s room. He stormed across the hall and threw open the door with the rage of a hurricane. She was like the eye of the storm: calm, composed. She had that same smile— like cold, glass. He imagined she had that same smile and look in her eyes when she pulled the trigger.

“Sherlock and I were just having a chat. I’m afraid he’s drifted off to sleep.”

“ _Yes_ , I know. _Everything_.”

“What do you mean _everything_?”

“ _Everything_.” He’d never seen Mary react like this, like she was calculating what to say next. Her face became a plot from a Little Golden Book story: with a turn of the page, the pleasant facial mask fell away, devoid of animation, emotion. It hit him— He’d fallen in love with an illusion. What was real lay on the bed.

“Why me?” John asked. “I’m nobody.”

“John, you underestimate yourself,” she said.

“So true. He’s always doing that,” Sherlock said. “Like he’s not good enough.”

“Oh, you’re awake. You should know, Sherlock that John is _very_ good.” The smirk on her lips floored him. He should have felt insulted, but a part of him wasn’t.

“I wouldn't know,” Sherlock said, using his best detached voice. “ _Yet_.”

John crossed his arms in front of his chest. Sherlock was hurting but throwing out his best forcefield— disdain. He had to step in. “Sherlock is not and will never be collateral.”

“You were never second best for me.” Mary raised an eyebrow. “I only wished that I wasn’t second best for you. _He_ was never, ever second best, always there in your head.” She refused to utter his name. Her flat smile not even aimed in Sherlock’s direction. “You’ll find the drug I injected will not kill him. Simply put him in a deep, drug-induced coma.”

“So deep I’ll never return I suppose.”

“Forever, I hope. You should be feeling the effects.”

“So sorry to disappoint.”

She raised her other eyebrow as Sherlock pulled the tape off the IV to reveal there was no needle. She sighed.

“You can come in, Mycroft.”

It was tough to watch the woman he thought he’d being marrying get taken away by Mycroft and his minions. Mycroft insisted she’d be safer with them since her cover was blown, and she hadn’t fulfilled her “hit.” The door closing behind her came with a touch of regret until he remembered what she was and what she’d tried to take away from him.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

“No, John. You don’t need to be sorry. I’m sorry.” He began to try to sit up. “I do think it’s time to leave this place.”

“You’re supposed to be under observation.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “ _we_ are. That is exactly why I wish to leave immediately.”

“Sherlock, you were just shot.”

“The wound is insignificant.”

“Insignificant?! You could have bled to death!”

“But I didn’t because you were there. You, John, pulled me back and out of the way. She would have shot me through the heart, and I, would be dead. I owe you once again, John Watson, for my miserable life.”

“You cock! No! Never again. You need to take care of yourself. Value your life like I value it. Maybe staying the night is a good idea.” John clenched his teeth.

“You know how much I abhor hospitals! I’ll be much more comfortable at home.”

Home. Sherlock was right. He would be more comfortable there. John relaxed the muscles in his jaw. Home at last.

“No need to tend to me,” Sherlock added. “I do understand you need time. I will be quite all right. Go to go back to your apartment.”

John covered his face, and rubbed his eyes. He hated that apartment, but maybe it was best. A bit of space. Time to think.

“Or if you wish, you could come back to Baker Street— Mrs. Hudson remade your bed just yesterday. I am always in need of a good doctor.”

“It’s settled then!” To hell with space. He’d had too much space. What he needed was severed heads in refrigerators and hydrofluoric acid in the sink. “We’ll go to Baker Street!” Sherlock took two deep breaths before hoisting himself up. After two tries pushing himself off the bed, he finally sat up with his legs dangling off the bed. Obviously, Sherlock wasn’t waiting for a discharge.

“Could you hand me my trousers?”

John recalled other times when he awkwardly assisted Sherlock dressing. With a bit of resignation and anticipation, John retrieved his clothes folded neatly on the chair in the corner of the room and set them at the end of the bed, taking the trousers first and kneeling in front of Sherlock. He began to slip them on over his legs.

“It’s not necessary to dress me, John. I’m not an invalid.” 

Color came back to Sherlock’s cheeks, and John was surprised how much this affected him too. He could see right up Sherlock’s gown. After what Mycroft told him, he was relieved to see that Sherlock looked “intact.”

“ _John_.”

“Here,” John said, finding himself equally as excited as he reached for Sherlock’s soiled shirt, “put this on yourself, but you’re too unsteady to put on your trousers.” John lingered longer inching them up his legs. “Stand up a bit so I can get them over your bony hips.” Sherlock blushed deeper as John’s steady hands pulled them up, then traced around to the front before zipping and fastening them, hovering over his cock and licking his lips as he did so.

Sherlock buttoned his shirt as John stood to get his socks and shoes. He never thought he would get hard from sliding fine cashmere socks over Sherlock’s feet, but he did. He flushed more as Sherlock’s toes flexed against his palms.

Getting him standing was a task. John was mindful of Sherlock’s side as let his arm glide around Sherlock’s waist. He supported Sherlock’s frame, welcoming his sharp angles and warmth.

“I can walk,” he rumbled in John’s ear.

John let go and let him stand on his own. He swayed for a second, but he was hell bent on walking out, wheelchair be damned. He wasn’t, however, adverse to leaning heavily on John as they walked through hospital. In fact, he seemed pleased as he wrapped himself against John like a cat stretching and rubbing around its master’s leg.

Getting him into the cab and home was easy, but up the stairs at Baker Street, not so much. Sherlock was tired and drained by then, his body draped over John as he all but hauled Sherlock off his feet and up the stairs.

Opening the door was the best feeling ever. Like he’d never left. He spread Sherlock out on the couch and propped his head up with the Union Jack pillow and went to the kitchen to make tea. Nothing was moved. Everything in its place as before. All the same yet nothing the same. They were different. He checked the fridge. Mrs. Hudson had left the strawberry cake.

John handed Sherlock the tea when done, fingers brushing and lingering longer than they ever had in the past. He sat in his old chair and drank from his old cup and watched the love of his life. Like a song from childhood, the lyrics of their time together came back to him. It was easy. The melody light, but the tune had changed.

“Are you going to sit there staring at me all evening or are you going to finally kiss me?” Sherlock asked. “I think I’ve waited far too long for this to happen. Please be quick about it. We don’t have a lifetime.”

“You arse.” He set down his tea and stood, looking down into expectant pale green eyes. He scooted into the space near Sherlock’s chest and rested his hand on the back of the couch. As he bent toward his lips, he thought of all the times he wondered what those lips would feel like. All the times he’d dreampt how soft they’d be beneath his. This was real. All chapped and rough and filled with moans and sighs and nips and bites. It was better, so much better than any dream.

“You may need my help getting to bed.” John felt Sherlock tense against him. He pulled back and concern filling him. “All we need do is rest.”

“I’m sure if Mycroft hasn’t told you, but John, you’ve noticed my hands and arms. I am not the same. I was beaten. I’ve healed for the most part, but there are scars.”

“Mycroft said something else…”

Sherlock’s jaw stiffened. “Mycroft would. I should be thankful to him. He came in time. It was the first time since I was a child that I was happy to see my brother.”

“Sherlock, what…”

“They intended to castrate me.”

“Were you…”

“Raped? I was violated. With objects. But this is just transport, John. I kept myself safe in my mind palace.”

John covered his mouth. “God.”

“I do want you, John. It kills me that what they did to me makes me afraid. But if it’s you, I know I am safe. You were there with me. You kept me sane. You saved me. Without you there, I never would have lasted. You made me want to live. You have always made me a better person, John. I want to be that person. A good man. For you.”

“Sherlock, you always have been a good man--I didn’t make you that way. You may have been a bit lost at times, but you’ve always been a good man.”

Sherlock sniffed and brushed the tears away with the back of his hand. “Help me to bed. But don’t expect much.”

“Sherlock, my expectations are always low.”

“I will change that. Some day. I promise.”

“Yes, I know you will, but for today, let’s get you settled.”

He leaned on John as he helped him to his room. A labor of love to pull down the covers and ease off his clothes and slip him inside. Sherlock shifted himself over to make room, eyes reaching out to John. “Just to sleep,” John reassured him.

“And cuddle?” His nose was close to John’s.

“I could use a few more kisses.”

John stood and removed his shirt and trousers under Sherlock’s unblinking gaze. He left on his pants, but his cock had other ideas, hard and pointing at the object of its affection.

“I’m glad all of you is happy. Especially after the day we’ve had.”

Of course Sherlock had to remind him. That was Sherlock. He ignored it as he tipped down next to him. He decided a quick kiss from those lips was like taking a sip from the river Lethe, and he soon forgot everything but his own name. Those curls were much silkier between his fingers than he’d anticipated. From there, he let his hands reach around Sherlock’s back. He felt the scars but showed no hesitation. Sherlock needed this, full acceptance. Love. He kissed the scar on his chin and marks left on his neck. Sherlock moaned and held him tight and reached around John.

“I never thought I would have this.” Sherlock’s whisper was deep and rich yet broken. “This is a gift.”

“It’s a gift for me too. One we can keep,” John said.

Sherlock long fingers cautiously moved down John’s spine, testing the spaces inbetween. It felt delicious. He traced his own path up and down Sherlock’s arms. They were wrapped up together. It felt like home. Both of them were hard, rubbing against the other, spines tingling.

It was so easy to take his hand and reached inside Sherlock’s pants, but he wanted permission first.

“That’s more than cuddling,” Sherlock said, reaching for John’s cock.

“Are you complaining?”

“No, please continue, if a mutual wank is what the doctor prescribes.”

“Yes. It is.”

Sherlock thrusted beautifully in his fist, his cock long and lean and shiny with precome. With wonder and focus of genius, Sherlock’s mouth found John’s lips and tangled his tongue inside John’s mouth. John met each thrust and lick with his own. He helped Sherlock’s broken fingers with his other hand. He couldn’t believe he was here with Sherlock. That he was alive and in his hand.

Half sobbing, Sherlock came warm over their fingers, proof that he was here. John followed. A day ago his life almost took the wrong path. A day ago he believed he should take what little happiness he found and be satisfied. Today he had what he’d always wanted but never knew it possible.

“Can I have the ring?” Sherlock asked, chin resting on John’s shoulder.

“Can you what?”

“Can I have the ring? As in a symbol of love, commitment. Can I have it?”

“What exactly are you asking me, Sherlock?”

“It’s not my ring. You have to ask me.”

John pulled back and looked into Sherlock’s sincere eyes. It was that easy: That ring belonged in the family. It should stay in the family. Sherlock was family. He fumbled across the bed and reached into the pocket of Sherlock’s robe, then snapped the box open.

“As a symbol of love and commitment, will you keep my ring for always?”

“I will.”

“God, that was easier than I ever thought it would be! I didn’t even have to get down on one knee or ask for your parents’ approval!” John removed the ring from the box.

“Not necessary to get on one knee, but you will still need to talk to mummy and dad. And you need to move back home.”

“I really think we should get cleaned up first.”

Doubt crept in. He was just an ordinary bloke. Yes, he wanted Sherlock to be his family, but did Sherlock’s family want John Watson?

“Please stop that! You’re thinking too hard! My parents already love you. I told you. Everyone loves you. You’re easy to love. For god’s sake, Mycroft even loves you. Even if my family didn’t, I love you. Now give me that ring!”

“Second thought, I could hold off on the ring until Valentine’s Day and propose on one knee then. A bit of delayed gratification would do you good.” Sherlock’s bottom lip stuck out. John loved how he pouted.

“You’re not changing your mind?”

“Never. Believe it or not, you wanker, you’re easy to love too. We’ve always been like an old married couple anyway. Are you hungry? Mrs. Hudson left us some cake. It’s not double chocolate, but it’s one of your favorites.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Mmm. The ring. My aunt had big fingers, but I don’t think this will even go over your first knuckle on your little finger.”

“I’ll buy a rugged gold chain, but until then, I’d like to wear it.” A blush crept up his chest, then across his cheeks as John slipped it on. “What about moving back to Baker Street?”

“Yes, but I’ll need to find some more boxes.”

“I’ll help you if you get me a piece of cake.”

John kissed Sherlock’s forehead before getting out of bed and putting on the borrowed blue silk dressing gown. He brought back a big slice to share. No silverware. They rolled around the bed, scooping up cake and slathering the whipped cream and strawberry cake over each other with white chocolate frosted fingers and giggles. They christened the ring with sugar-coated wanks. Sherlock licked the plate while John licked Sherlock clean.

All sleepy and satiated, they cocooned together in Sherlock’s bed. Fingers clasped, the ring in place on Sherlock’s little finger. John kissed Sherlock’s hand and thanked what ever power that brought the man he loved back to him. This was real. Sherlock was alive, and he wanted a life with John Watson.

John was careful not to wake him. Sherlock needed rest. He needed his doctor to take care of him. John would give him tender care and patience and all the time he needed. He let his eyes close, no longer afraid Sherlock would vanish. John still choked up when he whispered his name, but not from sorrow. He was moving home. Tomorrow he’d pack his life back into those cardboard boxes, but this time John would be the one to unpack them.

**Author's Note:**

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